


across our hearts

by orenji



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Worldlines/Timelines, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Reincarnation, Wings, keith would do anything for shiro that's it that's the whole fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orenji/pseuds/orenji
Summary: "No matter where we are, no matter what world, what era, even—Iwillmake my way to you,” he promises, fierce, unwavering. “Nothing can keep us apart—you understand? You’re the only one I want. I’ll chase you across the universe as many times as i have to.”(Or: Keith works at a convenience store. Shiro has wings. It spirals quickly from then on.)





	across our hearts

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd once again, but can't help it. need to get this out. need to show everyone how much these two love each other. a lot of sheith meta in here, sorry, couldn't help it. also prepare yourself for an abundant amount of run-ons. I'M SORRY OKAY. they just love each other so much, y'all, i can't.

The drag of his cigarette is a familiar one—an engrained habit as simple as brushing his teeth. He inhales, watching the cherry flare bright, exhales, a cloud of gray tendrils snaking outwards. He frowns as the taste settles in the back of his throat, flicking the ash off with a practiced jerk of the thumb. He’s smoking a new pack today, some hipster American Spirit bullshit that boasts its “additive free natural tobacco.”

It’s not like he wanted to buy it, but the deli by his apartment ran out of Marlboro Reds, and he stupidly asked the clerk—an old Indian man who sees his type far too often—for a recommendation. He’s stuck with this shit now, and he could be angry because cigarettes are fucking _expensive_ in the city, but he also can’t blame the guy. As uncaring Keith is to what others think of him, he does hold enough self-awareness to acknowledge the fact that he does look like the type of douchebag who would unironically buy these, what with his stupid leather jacket and all.

He takes another puff, slower this time, filling his lungs with the comforting ever-expanding fire before blowing out lazily through his nose. He’s only halfway through when his co-worker, a girl with glasses who goes by Pidge, comes up to him, plucking the fag out of his hand. She’s already twenty, but she’s so small and skinny that it makes him uneasy to see her holding a cigarette so easily, like it belongs in the clutch of her fingers.

He belatedly remembers when they first started working at this shitty convenience store together, when she was a senior in high-school and he was two years out of secondary education, and how she used to always wrinkle her nose in disgust whenever he went out for a smoke break. _Weed is better,_ she would say. _I would never smoke._ Cut to a year and a half later, and here she is—just as she said she’d never be. Funny how things work out. She brings the filter to her lips and draws in a long breath, the paper and tobacco flitting away into dust, and then floating off into the August night sky.

“Oof,” she says, exhaling with a grimace. “You switched?”

“Not by choice,” Keith responds, holding his hand out. She places the butt back neatly into the groove between his fingers. “Am I needed?”

“Yeah,” she says, adjusting her laptop bag. “I’m leaving early; I got a paper to write. So you get all the fun of closing by yourself today!”

He rolls his eyes, but fondly bumps their shoulders together. “You going home alone?” he asks.

“Hunk is picking me up,” she replies, absentmindedly fixing her hair. She probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. “He should be here in, like, five minutes? Something like that.”

Keith hides a smile by taking a short pull. She likes Hunk, that much he knows. He’s met Hunk a grand total of maybe five times over the past few years, each time in this exact scenario. A good-looking kid and an honest one, too. Family-oriented, clean-cut, a little on the heavier side. He’s a culinary major, and makes the most amazing cream puffs, if Keith is to believe Pidge’s endless and unasked-for reviews. They’re just friends, Pidge insists, but Keith has seen the way her cheeks would turn a strangely girlish pink whenever Hunk would come out and open the passenger door for her. _Just friends, my ass,_ Keith would think.

It’s unsaid, but unquestioningly followed by everyone at work that Pidge’s virtue and innocence must be protected at all costs. More than once has Keith, in a fit of rage, threatened to get physical with customers who creepily flirted or made advances on Pidge. But he actually likes Hunk. Hunk is a nice guy. Maybe a little too nice, even. He prays that someday Hunk will eventually grow a pair and just ask Pidge out, because while it’s sweet to see their courting, it’s also a little long-winded and just an inch short of pathetic.

A flicker of bright headlights and the tell-tale red of a crummy ’09 Honda Civic is Keith’s cue to go back inside. He stumps out his cigarette with the sole of his boot and pulls Pidge into a hug, making sure Hunk can see. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, sloppy and wet, ignoring her overdramatic groan of disgust. She pushes him away, exasperated but still pleased if the upwards quirk of her lips is anything to go by, and practically skips her way to Hunk’s car.

Hunk gets out and opens the door for her, as usual, but not without shooting Keith an almost deadly glare that looks downright unpleasant on his usually kind face. Keith bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing, shooting a little goodbye wave at them both. If anything, he hopes this newfound jealousy will speed things up a bit. Thoroughly entertained, Keith turns on his heel with a little bit of a flourish, and relishes the welcoming embrace of the A.C., the only good thing to come of this otherwise dreadful job.

 

* * *

 

When Keith was in primary school, he was a problem-child. He got into scuffles and fights and never spoke much. He was a good student, though, incredibly smart—maybe that’s why they put up with him. After a particularly bruising fight in year five, blood smeared across his knuckles and dripping from his nose, Keith ran to the bathroom, where he found out his sclera had turned yellow. Since then, Keith has known he isn’t fully human. He manages to keep it under wraps, though; he’s not too keen on being treated like a test subject, or being experimented on, for that matter. He doesn’t know _what_ he’s mixed with, only that it must be a relatively small percentage given the otherwise normalcy of his appearance. It may have bothered him a smidge when he was younger, but now, he reckons there are loads of perks he hasn’t fully taken advantage of. Enhanced speed, enhanced strength, enhanced vision, to name a few.

Sometimes he even sees things that other people definitely can't.

This is how it goes. There’s an hour left till closing, and now that Pidge isn’t here to provide any mental simulation, Keith is bored out of his god damn mind. He could, theoretically, be a good employee and count inventory, take stock, or even mop the floors, but his boss, a buff war-vet named Iverson, is long gone for the day and to be honest, he really does not want to. So he resigns to his monotonous fate of rereading the tabloid magazines by his side for what seems like the umpteenth time for lack of anything better to do.

Then it happens, like slow-motion in a cheesy rom-com Keith’s longtime best friend, Lance, would watch. _For the shits and giggles,_ Lance would say, and Keith would dutifully pretend to not notice his obvious sniffling halfway through the film. The bell above the front doors ring loudly, chiming the entrance of a new customer. Keith calls out a bored, “Welcome!” and gives a perfunctory glance to the side before he goes back to ogling Kim Kardashian’s tasteful semi-nudes.

Wait.

Keith blinks, once, twice. He rubs his eyes with his hands too, just to make sure. In his line of sight are…wings. Huge, white, feathery, and very, _very_ real. The person (?) attached to them is young and not much older than Keith himself, probably. Tall, muscular, fit. Fills out his jeans quite nicely (read: he has an ass to die for). He’s perusing the fridges for a drink, pursing his lips in contemplation while his wings fold up against his back to presumably avoid knocking anything over. He doesn’t have a halo over his head, but he has light hair and gray eyes and Keith can’t say for sure that he isn’t an angel, gorgeous as he is.

This is uncharted territory. Keith straightens and pokes his head out from behind the counter to look up at the CCTV cameras. The wings don’t show up on screen, but when he drags his gaze to the man again, they flutter gently in a confirmation of their presence. Pseudo-Angel finally settles on a few drinks, several cans of instant coffee, and turns around to catch Keith’s stare. Shit. Keith’s breath stutters in his throat, but Pseudo-Angel spares him the embarrassment by ducking his head, pretending like he never saw.

He walks over to the counter, his steps quiet and slow, and places the cans on the conveyor belt. His eyes drop down to the magazine Keith left open, and his mouth curls into a small smile that screams of thinly-concealed amusement. Keith feels the tips of his ears redden, quickly shoving the offending article off the laminate and onto the tiled floor next to him. He stomps on Kim’s tits for good measure and clears his throat.

“Did you find everything okay?” he finds himself asking. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t ever talk to customers, not unless spoken to first. Sometimes not even then.

“Yes, thank you.”

His voice is low but sweet in sound. Melodious and lilting, like a hymn. Keith can safely say that this man, much like himself, isn’t one-hundred percent human. As if on cue, his wings twitch and spread open, and Keith is unable to look away. Up close, they’re as pure as untouched snow, made up of wispy feathers that look as soft as clouds. He wants to reach out and touch, but he reigns in his desire to avoid seeming more like a creep than he already does.

He makes quick work of ringing and bagging up Pseudo-Angel's items, telling him his total in an even voice that betrays his inner bewilderment. He hands Keith a crisp bill and when their fingers brush, Keith feels a line of electricity shoot up his arm, and a phantom sting on his cheek. He doesn’t dare to check if Pseudo-Angel felt it too, choosing to instead haphazardly drop the change into his palm with a murmured, half-hearted apology.

“It’s okay,” the man assures, pocketing his change. He coils the handle of the bag around his wrist. “Thank you, Keith.”

Keith’s eyebrows crawl upwards toward his hairline before he realizes he’s wearing a nametag. He shakes his head, chiding himself at his own stupidity.

“No problem,” he says, and then pauses. Before he can stop himself, he blurts out: “You’re not from here.”

It comes out more like an accusation than a question, but Pseudo-Angel doesn’t seem perturbed. Instead, he smiles, eyes crinkling. Keith doesn’t know why the simple change in expression is enough to make him ease up a bit, but it does. He decides to roll with it.

“How did you know?” Pseudo-Angel asks.

 _Because I would have remembered someone like you_ , he thinks, but that sounds too cheesy and perhaps even vaguely greasy, so he shrugs.

“You actually have manners,” Keith jokes lamely. “Are you visiting?”

He hums. “Something like that,” he says slowly, lips rounding over every word as if he’s choosing what to say with much consideration. “More like a drifter.”

“A drifter,” Keith repeats, eyeing his wings.

His wings flap once. “A drifter,” he confirms.

Keith can’t help the skyward tipping of the corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he says, slightly charmed. “Can I know your name?”

Pseudo-Angel cocks his head to the side, teeth poking out to bite at his lower lip. His cheeks are dusted with a lovely red that looks closer to purple under the fluorescent lighting, and Keith is hopelessly enamored already. It’s literally been no longer than five minutes, but this scenario feels all too familiar, somehow.

“You flirt with all your customers?” he asks with no bite.

“It’s a first for me,” Keith admits, raising his hands in mock-surrender. His palms are sweaty. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

The man gives him a once-over, and Keith puffs out his chest, partly in jest, mostly to hide how nervous he is. It works, because Pseudo-Angel laughs lightly, a silvery, tinkling sort of sound that makes Keith’s heart thrum against his ribcage. He’d like to hear that noise more often, if he could.

“Shiro,” he says, and does a half-turn. “I’ll see you around.”

Keith watches him go, a strange ache settling into his bones.

“See you.”

 

* * *

 

Contrary to their parting words, Keith does not see Shiro for a while. He spends his immediate succeeding night shifts hoping to spot a pair of wings, only to end up sorely disappointed when he has to close without getting to see them. He doesn’t know exactly how much time has passed, only that it’s October now, and there’s a biting chill to the air that’s not unwelcome. He eases back into his usual routine of working, going to the gym, bingewatching YouTube videos in his ratty apartment, and walking his two-year-old pup named Kosmo. Shiro was just a hiccup, an anomaly in his repetitive, but comfortable existence. Was he the most beautiful thing to walk this Earth? Yes. Was he undoubtedly not _from_ Earth? Also, yes.

But Keith doesn’t even know him, therefore, he’s not allowed to get upset. That’s how he should think, at least. But he still imagines Shiro’s neatly-combed hair and how it looked too natural to be dyed sometimes. He wonders how it would feel between his fingers. He imagines Shiro’s pink lips, dark lashes, thick thighs. His mind wanders, because he’s a young bachelor, okay, so what? Maybe it’s wrong to jack off to a complete stranger, but he still palms at his cock and comes in his boxers on the rare nights he can’t fall asleep, thinking of fucking into Shiro from behind and watching his wings flare.

He’s started to dream, recently. He doesn’t know of what because he always wakes up in a sweat, without remembering much. He recalls blackness, a stroke of red. Occasionally, he’ll see a blade, a soaring ship, a desert, and a figure. A distorted voice. A whispered confession. They’re more reminiscent of nightmares, but he’s hesitant to even classify them as such, as figments of a natural process of the mind, because they feel too intimate, too authentic. He doesn’t let them get in the way of the regular schedule he calls his life, but he’s careful when he shaves now. There’s a random burn that comes and goes on the side of his face, trailing down towards his jaw, and he’s not sure why.

He pops by Lance’s dorm on his next day off, a Saturday. He works from opening till close tomorrow, but he figures he can afford to come in a little late and maybe a little hungover, too. It’s not like he’s going to get fired anytime soon. There’s a code of loyalty, and Keith has been there the longest, next to Pidge, which grants him immunity. At least, that’s how he figures it should work.

Lance welcomes him with a goofy grin and a hankering to get plastered. They drink the rest of a bottle of bottom-shelf vodka Lance procured for the last frat party he went to and watch SNL clips on his laptop, sidling too close to each other on his bed. There’s a nice, pleasant warmth swirling in the pits of Keith’s belly, and it’s only amplified by their shared body heat and Lance’s too-loud laughs.

When night falls and Lance casually mentions his roommate is out for the weekend, Keith presses closer and slots their mouths together. It’s easy, like this. Lance snaps his laptop shut and passes it to Keith, who puts it on his bedside table. While he’s there, he opens the second drawer and grabs the lube and condoms. The pack of condoms feels significantly lighter as opposed to the last time he was here. Keith raises a brow.

“You been getting some?” he asks, shimmying out of his tight jeans before helping Lance do the same.

“Hell yeah,” Lance enthuses, kicking his pants to the side. He pulls his boxer-briefs down in one fluid motion, cock leaking against his belly. “There’s this girl I want you to meet. She’s so fucking cool. She’s been pegging me lately.”

Keith snorts. “Why does it not surprise me that you never top?”

Lance slaps his chest, but he throws his head back with a cackle. “Fuck you!”

Keith slicks two of his fingers and bends down, sucking a bruise into the space where Lance’s upper thigh meets his torso. “Yes, sir.”

They spend the rest of the night fucking and giggling about nothing and everything. Lance rides him their third round, grinding down on Keith’s cock with reckless abandon, and Keith watches with his hands folded behind his head, a smirk toying at his lips.

“You ride that girl like this too?” he teases.

“Can’t,” Lance gasps out, completely serious. “Toy slips out of my ass.”

For some reason, that makes Keith laugh so hard he folds over in half. Lance falls to the side in a disgraceful heap of limbs, and smacks Keith upside the head. Both their erections flag in record time, and they end up curling beside each other, small bouts of giggles and sniggers drifting through the air. Lance’s fingers trail down the side of Keith’s stomach, landing by his waist.

“You staying over?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Keith says, shutting his eyes. “That cool?”

Lance turns around without answering, reaching behind to grab Keith’s arm. He pulls it over his middle and settles into the sheets, comfortable now. Keith buries his face into the nape of Lance’s neck, inhaling deep. He listens to Lance’s pulse, erratic at first, some breaths too deep, some too shallow, but then it pans into something even and rhythmic. A metronome.

“You need anything?” Lance asks, right as Keith’s consciousness starts to blur at the edges.

Keith ponders that a moment too long. “Wake me up if I have a nightmare,” he says, unfiltered, sleep and alcohol talking for him. Lance stills for a split-second so brief before squeezing Keith’s hand in reassurance.

“Okay.”

Satisfied, he yawns, and falls asleep. It’s short-lived. Sometime later during the night, he wakes in a cold sweat and a choked gasp— ** _blood, sacrifice, home, lions_** —but Lance is there, right by him, cradling him close. He swallows a lungful of air, fingers digging into Lance’s back.

“It was just a dream,” Lance says, stroking his hair. “Just a dream.”

 _No_ , Keith thinks with resounding sobriety, _it wasn’t._

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Keith comes to terms with the fact that the after effects from downing cheap liquor like it’s water is never worth it. There’s a migraine so intense rattling in his skull and a dull throb flaring up the length of his spine because Lance’s bed is decidedly _not_ made for two people, damn it. He barely refrains from giving into the primal urge of just banging his fucking head on the counter by taking a slow sip of his coffee. It burns the roof of his mouth, but he doesn’t even have it in him to care.

Pidge arrives a few hours later, proudly branding a hickey on her shoulder that instantaneously fills Keith with a murderous wrath. Hangover forgotten, he crowds her in the backroom while she’s changing, demanding to know who, why, what, when, and how _that_ happened. She shrieks, whipping around to knee him in the groin out of pure instinct, and he falls to the ground with a pained groan. She doesn’t apologize. She laughs so hard she cries, bracing herself by holding onto the edge of her locker. He doesn’t manage to get up until about ten minutes later, long after she’s told him, _It’s Hunk, you dumb cunt._

He sulks for the rest of the day. Pidge tries to placate him by offering to buy him a pack of cigarettes. It almost works, but then he remembers he just bought a new pack this morning—Reds, this time—and doesn’t need one. She heaves out an annoyed sigh and goes back to checking the aisles for any misplaced items, but not before dubbing Keith a big, dumb baby. Keith mocks her, mouthing the words at her back, and then subsequently pretends to be counting the cash in the register when she turns around with a pointed glare.

The workday passes by rather uneventfully, with a smattering of dilly-dallying smoke breaks, checking out the items of the occasional customer, and Pidge flicking balled up pieces of newspaper at Keith’s head whenever there’s a lull in conversation. Her schedule says that she’s done at six in the evening, but a massive downpour of rain at half past five forces her to stay inside and give Hunk a call to pick her up.

Her knight in shining armor arrives closer to seven, trailing a mess of water inside the store that has Keith grumbling in discontent. He has an umbrella and a killer-watt smile, asking Pidge if she’s ready to go. Her cheeks dimple, and she has a hop to her step when she comes out from behind the counter. Keith’s anger melts away, replaced by the inundating feeling of wanting to protect and to love, and when Pidge leans over to kiss his cheek goodbye, he tells her to play it cool or else her boyfriend is going to have a problem. Hunk laughs, deep-bellied and good-natured, and gives Keith a dap that says more than words could ever convey, but Keith understands and shoots him a cheeky grin of his own.

_I’ll take care of her._

_You better._

They take their leave, arms linked. He hears the familiar rumble of Hunk’s car and watches them drive off, not quite understanding the pang in his heart. Iverson comes in sometime around nine in a full-length rain poncho to check up on things. Keith wolf-whistles in appreciation, sniggering outright when Iverson flips him the bird. He takes one look at Keith and tells him, _Go home, you look like shit._ Keith thanks him with a wry smile but is all too happy to not have to deal with closing, so he obediently packs his stuff, changes out of his uniform, and walks home in the storm.

It's rough out. He tries to light a cigarette to no avail, droplets of water coming down so hard it actually snaps his fag in half. He sighs, irritated, and stuffs his soaked pack in his back pocket, speeding up his tempo to a half-jog. He’s a stone’s throw from his apartment complex when he sees a familiar figure standing by a bus stop all alone, and in place of an umbrella providing cover, it’s a pair of striking, damp wings.

There’s not much preamble from that moment forth.

“Hey,” Keith calls out, tugging his hood down. The rain soaks through his hair in seconds.

Shiro glances up, water beads clinging to his lashes. His lips spread into a smile of recognition. The gaps of feathers in his wings allow for slivers of rain to drizzle down, so he’s partly drenched, his pastel button-down translucent. His nipples are dark, Keith notes absently. He’d thought they’d be pink. A sight for sore eyes, truly.

“Hi,” he greets, smooth like honey. “Keith, right?”

Keith beams. “You remember.”

Shiro chuckles. “So do you.”

They carefully regard each other for longer than is socially acceptable. Cars pass by, the rumble of traffic a form of white noise, second to their easy breaths. The slick pavements reflect the signature city paintings of blue and green, shining off the side of Shiro’s face, making him look even more inhuman and perfect than he already is. Keith doesn’t know why he’s so drawn to Shiro, but he doesn’t question it, because he feels unequivocally safe and sound. He’s also a dumb soon-to-be twenty-three -year-old who tends to think with his dick, but that’s not important.

“You’re wet,” Keith says to break the silence. “Come to mine?”

Shiro sticks his tongue in his cheek, clearly amused. He angles his hip to the side with a little tilt of the head, and a trail of water slips down from his temple sideways across his nose. He has light freckles across the bridge of his nose, but there’s something missing, though Keith can’t put his finger on what. He reaches out without thinking, wiping away the moisture with his thumb. He counts it as a personal victory when he hears Shiro inhale sharply, chest rising with the abruptness of it.

“Not even gonna wine and dine me first?” Shiro asks, but it’s a touch too breathy to be considered a joke.

Keith wants to kiss him dizzy.

He doesn’t, though. Not right now. He snakes his arm back to his side instead, raising it in an offhanded shrug. “I’ve got tequila and leftovers.”

Shiro laughs at this, the sound as delicate as ever. “This shouldn’t be working on me.”

“But it is, isn’t it?” Keith asks, grinning. “I’m a block away. Promise I’m not a secret murderer.”

A pregnant pause.

“Alright,” Shiro ultimately says with an air of incredulity, as if he himself cannot believe he is saying yes. Keith is also relatively amazed it didn’t take more convincing, but goes with the flow. The stars are aligned in his favor tonight; he’s not going to let it go to waste.

“Okay,” Keith says, loosely grasping Shiro’s wrist with a surge of confidence. Shiro complies, falls into line effortlessly, wings ruffling behind him. “Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

Kosmo really, really likes Shiro. More than he likes Keith, probably. Only somewhat wary at first, Kosmo quickly took to Shiro once he smelled his hand, as if he knew his scent from somewhere, and fell to ground, displaying his belly with his paws in the air. Shiro bent at the waist, clucking his tongue as he vigorously rubbed up and down the length of Kosmo’s belly. Kosmo yipped happily, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and Keith watched in utter disbelief before going into his room to fetch some clothes and towels.

He doesn’t know if Shiro cuts holes in his shirts or what, but he tries to navigate the wing-situation by pulling out the loosest racerback tank-top he owns, and a pair of dark sweats to match. No boxers, because he doesn’t have any clean pairs right now, which he honest to God did not plan, but is thankful for the turn of events anyway. Shiro fixes him with a deadpan expression when he hears the news.

“How convenient,” Shiro says, but there’s a laugh hiding somewhere in his voice.

“Indeed,” Keith agrees solemnly. “Be thankful the pants aren’t gray.”

Shiro rolls his eyes and ducks into the bathroom gracefully, without any awkward movements at all, wings tucking up against his back and then extending outwards once he’s in fully. He closes the door behind him, and Keith makes quick work of changing out of his sopping clothes and into a dry, semi-clean band tee and basketball shorts that ride a little too low on his hips.

He pads over to the kitchen to pour them two shots of Patron, his latest splurge, and heats up what’s left of the Chinese takeout he had the other day. He deftly fixes up two plates and sets it on the coffee table in the tiny excuse that is his living room, placing both hands on his hips, taking in the scene before him. Yes. This is definitely the millennial experience summed up quite neatly, he thinks.

He takes a seat on his couch, legs folded underneath him, just as Shiro comes out from the bathroom. He runs his hand through his hair, biceps flexing, and he looks so effortlessly erotic that Keith’s mouth dries. The pants are tight on him—they hug the curves of his ass _just right_ and his thighs look like they could rip through at any second. But the shirt is so billowy and his wings perk at the freedom of movement and—oh. That’s an exposed nipple. The get-up, simple and comfortable in theory, truly leaves little to the imagination. Keith opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water, unable to find any words.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Shiro asks, as if he doesn’t already know, that damned minx. He’s flushing all the way down to his chest, but a coy smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

“I—” Keith’s voice is so scratchy it doesn’t even sound like him. He clears his throat, and tries again. “You look good.” (Read: I want to fuck you senseless.)

They do not have sex that night. They drink till they’re both red in the face, eat till the waistbands of their pants need to be loosened. They watch The Office on Netflix and do piss-poor imitations of Dwight’s most famous lines. Shiro insists that Dwight has a thing for Jim, and Keith muffles a scream into the couch cushion, because _Holy shit, I see it now._ Shiro cackles, tells Keith he’s stupid to have not seen it, even though it’s so obvious.

Keith playfully kicks at Shiro’s chest in response, but Shiro catches his foot easily and wrestles him down onto the floor where they fall with a loud bang. Keith lets Shiro have the upper-hand because it’s just the chivalrous thing to do (and definitely not because Shiro is stronger than him, he tries to convince himself). Shiro straddles him, knees digging into the floor on either side of Keith’s waist. They giggle, trying to catch their breaths, and then there are no words, and Shiro is looking at Keith like he’s the most precious thing in the world.

“Who are you?” Keith asks, tracing lazy circles on Shiro’s thigh. “Why do I feel like I’ve known you my whole life?”

It’s not a pick-up line. He’ll wince when he remembers it in the morning, but he means it. A wasteland, a ship, an unspoken promise, a link nearly severed beyond repair, but still alive, still breathing. Scars running down the panes of flesh, harried demands in panic, tender words of affection in peace. He doesn’t remember—he just feels, with the most intrinsic and visceral parts of his soul, a love that has seen the light of day once, and will see it for as long as the sun rises in the East. Across lifetimes, across worlds, across destinations, there will come into existence this love story, and sometimes he wonders if it is indeed his.

“Maybe you have.”

It’s as cryptic of an answer as could be, but before Keith can come back with a retort, Shiro leans down and kisses him. His lips are partly chapped and his breath smells faintly of sesame chicken, but it’s still the most wonderful kiss Keith has ever known. He grabs onto Shiro’s hips and holds him down like he’s a safety anchor, grounding him from flying too close to the sun. The twists and curves of his body aren’t familiar, but Keith hopes that he’ll fix that soon enough. Shiro cradles his face, gentle, as if assuring Keith that he won’t go anywhere.

“You gonna fly away with those wings of yours come morning?” Keith asks against the velvet of Shiro’s mouth.

Shiro pulls away but not too far. The shared air is heated between them, the rise and fall of their chests synced. “You see them,” he says, though he doesn’t sound surprised. “How come?”

Keith lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Not human.”

Shiro starts this time, wings twitching. “What are you?” he asks hesitantly, and Keith gets the creeping feeling that Shiro already has an answer he wants to hear.

“I don’t know,” he replies candidly. “Yours, probably.”

Ouch. Major cringe. He’s blaming the tequila for that one.

Shiro slumps, in relief, disappointment—Keith doesn’t know—but then his eyes crinkle in that lovely way they tend to do. He swoops in to press his lips to Keith’s forehead. “Smooth-talker.”

“Just honest,” he says, hands traveling up the expanse of Shiro’s back. He maps out the grooves, the little dimples right above the swell of his bum. He grazes over the knobs of his spine, brushes over the base of his wings. Shiro gasps— he’s probably sensitive there—so Keith moves to play with the hairs on the nape of his neck instead, but not without tucking that piece of information in his mind for later use. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Shiro turns his gaze downcast. “Would you let me?”

Keith doesn’t falter. “No,” he answers, and tugs him down for another kiss.

 

* * *

 

Keith wakes up in the morning, cold and alone.

On his dresser is a folded piece of paper. Written in neat cursive:

_Thank you._

He doesn’t cry. He presses the heels of his hands into the glowing yellow of his eyes and takes a deep, controlled breath, but he does not cry. He calls in sick to work, and sleeps with the note crumpled up to his chest. He doesn’t dream once.

 

* * *

 

For as long as he’s remembered, Keith hasn’t had anyone to call his family. He grew up with distant relatives who made sure he ate and didn’t starve to death, but other than that, couldn’t care less about him. He dropped out of high school, worked full-time at numerous odd jobs, and saved up to move out when he was twenty into a rent-controlled apartment with barely-working hot water, and he’s been doing just fine since. He has stable income, he finally got the super to fix that damned leak after two years of suffering and now he has hot water seventy-five percent of the time. He has a dog, he has friends, he gets laid every now and then. He’s fine.

He’s doing just fine, but he still feels hollow.

He rubs his chin, observing himself in the mirror. It’s been a while since he’s shaved. He’s got a beard coming in now. There’s a patch on the side of his cheek where hair doesn’t really grow, and he doesn’t wonder why. All he knows is that he has to clean up because Lance invited him to his annual Christmas Eve bash in some Airbnb he’s rented out for the night and that there’ll be cute college seniors looking for some last-minute one-night stands before they go home for the holidays.

 _Hunk and Pidge will be there_ , Lance said in an attempt to coax Keith into coming. _And my girlfriend, too! I have to introduce you guys._ Apparently, the son of a bitch finally managed to convince someone to stay with him long-term. Keith doesn’t know much about her, except that she's into pegging and that she is, in Lance’s eyes, way out of his league. Keith does not doubt that for a second.

He showers, shaves, and puts on clothes that can hopefully pass for ‘nice.’ Can’t go wrong with all-black, he reasons. He dabs cologne on his neck, leaves Kosmo with some dry food and a big smooch, and makes his way to the address Lance gave him. It’s snowing outside, but he doesn’t go back up to retrieve an umbrella. He watches the snow fall as he walks to the train, boots leaving an imprint of his path with every step he takes. He imagines Shiro catching a snowflake on his tongue, imagines him falling into a huge mountain of pure snow as he makes some stupid pun about snow angels because he’s totally the type who _would,_ and ignores the unsettling heaviness in the pits of his stomach.

Lance ushers Keith inside when he arrives, hurriedly mussing his hair to get rid of the melting flakes that have made a home on his head. The house is lively and filled with university students in ugly Christmas sweaters drunkenly making out underneath strategically placed mistletoes. He spots Hunk and Pidge in the corner, talking in hushed whispers, wearing matching outfits. They wave at him excitedly and he gives a small nod, trying to plaster a smile on his face in return. He’s definitely too sober for this.

Lance leads Keith to the living room with a hand on his lower back, whisking him away to a table covered with various bottles of cheap liquor that will definitely give Keith a massive hangover. He's never really been one to consider the ramifications of his actions, though, and chugs some god-awful peach-flavored vodka straight from the bottle. It burns on the way down, and Keith nearly throws it back up, but he swallows with a grimace and a few more hairs on his chest. Lance wrinkles his nose at him, disgusted.

“You’re going to get some sort of disease from doing that.”

“Bite me,” Keith says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Half an hour later, Keith is sloshed, and Lance decides that this is the perfect time to introduce him to his girlfriend. Keith glowers at him, but quickly schools his face into a pleasant expression when he comes face to face with a dark-skinned girl with gray hair and blue eyes that twinkle with something he can’t place. Jesus Christ, what a combo.

He takes her outstretched hand in his, and he’s taken aback by how firm her grip is. She’s gorgeous in every way conceivable and has a posh English accent to boot. She’s the only one at the party wearing a properly-fitted outfit, a long dress that sweeps the floor with her movements and an open back that shows off her smooth skin. Keith tells her point-blank that she’s too good for Lance, to which she only giggles, easing herself closer, hand on Keith’s shoulder.

“A lot of pining, trust me,” she says in his ear, and he busts out into laughter.

Lance sputters indignantly. “I’m right here!”

More guests start to filter in, and Lance has to fulfill his duty of being a good host, so he leaves them to talk on their own. Keith offers his arm, like a gentleman, and she thanks him with a playful curtsy. She links their arms together as they dodge and pivot around sweaty bodies to get to the backyard, cool air hitting their faces. He gives her his jacket, drapes it around her shoulders. She snuggles into the fabric, looking up at the sky with a childish sort of glee.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Keith says after a moment, reaching into his pocket to pull out his pack. He offers one to her, but she declines politely. He lights a cigarette and inhales, hollowing his cheeks. Drunk smokes are the best smokes.

“So you never kicked the habit,” she says quietly with a bittersweet smile. 

He freezes.

"You're—"

"Allura," she finishes, considering him with wide, hopeful eyes. "My name is Allura."

It _clicks._

Like a reel of clips and unaired snapshots, he sees an entire life flash through the planes of his mind within milliseconds. His heart skips a beat when he feels the warmth of chosen family, the desire to love in spite of pain, the fear being ripped out underneath the face of bravery. Scars, blood, screams, Galra—kisses, tears, laughter, Altea—he experiences it all once more, and the weight of the revelation hits him like a freight train, knocking the air out of his lungs.

When he pulls her into a bruising embrace, she squeezes him back with the same ferocity. His jacket and cigarette fall to the floor, forgotten, and they sway on their feet. He breathes her in, an unfamiliar smarting biting at the backs of his lids, and she presses a kiss to his old scar, right below his jaw. He trails down her back with the pads of his fingers, unable to believe that she’s real, physical, here in the flesh. She pulls back and holds his face in her palms, eyes shining with unshed tears. She smiles wetly, and he stares at her unblinkingly, not knowing what to say.

“You remember,” she says, voice thick.

“I don’t think I ever forgot,” he replies shakily. He looks heavenwards. “Do the others—”

“No,” she says, pressing her head to lie atop Keith’s racing heart. “I haven’t found our missing link.”

He chokes out a broken laugh, blood pounding. She looks up at him, questioning, and he shakes his head before brushing his lips lovingly to her forehead. He places his chin atop her crown, and holds her like she’s his lifejacket, because he’s drowning in his adoration and he doesn’t know how to deal.

“I have.”

 

* * *

 

In March of the following year, Keith begs Iverson to let him take all of his vacation days and sick days at once. Iverson says yes, but not without muttering cursed-filled threats underneath his breath, and Keith nearly salutes him in thanks, like the old times. He scrapes together what he has left of his savings and rents a car. He leaves Kosmo in Allura’s care, tells him to be a good boy, and tells her to watch after him properly. She laments at agreeing to do this when Keith explains, _Yes, Allura, you do have to pick up every single poop he drops_. Lance grins at her and says he’ll help whenever he can. Lance, Allura, Hunk, and Pidge see him off in front of his place. He has a duffle bag packed with nutrition bars, water, clothes, and a shit ton of Adderall to help him focus on the long stretch of road ahead.

Pidge asks him, “Do you really have to do this?”

Keith tells her, “Yeah, I do.”

Hunk and Lance scoop him up into a big hug and demand him to be safe, to be vigilant, to drive safe. He holds Pidge’s hand and promises that he will be back soon, to not worry, and she kisses him on the cheek with an unsteady murmur: _You better_. Allura has Kosmo in her arms, so she moves his paws and waves goodbye, a knowing gleam in her eyes. He pecks both their noses, orders them both to be on their best behavior. Allura mock-kicks him, but blows a kiss when he gets into the driver’s seat. He watches his friends, his family, the people who never gave up on him through the side-view mirror, and shifts the car into drive.

He heads west.

 

* * *

 

It’s a long drive. This is why he moved out to the city—driving is a huge pain in the ass, and he prefers sitting on the train and people-watching over having a mini-heart attack every time someone cuts him off on the highway, going ninety in a damned sixty-five. He doesn’t express his road rage because the drugs have him seeing through time and space, but halfway through his commute, on day two, clocking in at around twenty-five hours of endless roads, he pulls into a quaint town. He rents a cheap motel room, showers, changes into clean clothes, and goes to a pub.

He sits at the bar and orders a whiskey on the rocks. The bartender is all lashes and smiles, a purposeful sway to her hips that would have worked on him had this been half a year earlier. There's something vaguely familiar about her, though, Keith thinks, and it becomes more and more apparent the longer they engage in mindless small-talk. She has sparkling violet eyes that'd be hard to forget and a subtle charming twinge to her accent, but it's only when she outright introduces herself as Nyma that he's forced to stifle a sardonic laugh behind a fake cough. He doesn't say anything to avoid sounding like a total nutjob, but seriously, what are the chances?

He starts to wonder who else made it to this world, wonders if any of them remember. Wonders if any of them would even  _like_ to remember. Nyma snaps him out of his daze by sliding his glass over then, leaning forward to push her breasts into his view. How bold. He looks, because who wouldn’t? He smirks, appreciative, but leaves it at that and drinks in silence, mulling over his own thoughts. She shoots him a little simper and pulls away, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

“Not interested, sailor?” she asks, though she’s not disheartened. She's still got those matching dimples on her cheeks that could make any man swoon.

He laughs, mostly to himself. “I’ve got someone waiting for me.”

For a flicker of time so brief Keith might have missed it if he blinked, her expression softens completely, a genuinely warm smile playing on her pink-stained lips. She's gorgeous, when she's unguarded. Prettier when she drops the act. He thinks he understands now why Lance at one point was so infatuated with her. She quickly shifts back to a teasing lilt of voice though, and says, “She must be a real beauty, to have snatched you up.”

Keith thinks of eyes that resemble a thunderstorm, lips that curl into private smiles, hair that feels like silk underneath his fingers. A steel will, a silvery laugh, a heart of gold. He sees the man who saved him once, the man he would save as many times as it took, to be able to hold him and to say, _You are mine, as I am yours._ He remembers the angel who came to him in his time of need, with a black quiff and a spunky attitude, spewing inspirational quotes like he had them memorized.

Keith stole his car, floored the gas pedal and ran off, heart weeping, testing if he would stay. He ruffled Keith’s hair, told him that everything would be okay. Let him know that if no one else will, he will show him what it is to care and to try and to succeed. _Patience yields focus_ , he would say, and the flame in Keith’s eyes would flicker like a breath upon a candle, until the moment came that he understood, and was replaced by a proper blaze. Shiro helped him fly once, and now it’s Keith’s turn to do the same.

“Yes,” Keith agrees pleasantly, taking a small sip, “he is.”

 

* * *

 

He’s been walking for ages. He doesn’t even recall as to where he parked, only moving with the faintest pulse of familiarity guiding him along the way. The desert is an arid wasteland, parching Keith’s throat and sapping at his strength with every inch he crawls forward. He’d expected this place to be void of life, but lizards skitter across the dunes, plentiful, and crows flock to their murders, waiting and wary, to feed on their prey. He’s covered in sweat and has the worst case of swamp-ass, but he takes a swig from his bottle, sweet, sweet water quenching his horrible thirst, and trudges on.

He has a hard time believing he was a warrior once, born to someone as resilient as Krolia, because he feels close to dying. The land stretches out in dips and dives of spun-gold and brown before him, and the only change in scenery comes when he spots the occasional tumbleweed or cactus. The heat-haze is suffocating and makes everything appear in waves. Death whispers to him, tells him it is not his time, to go back and end this useless suffering. He doesn’t listen. He looks up at the blue, blue sky, and asks for respite.

A hawk screeches overhead, and Keith, with no other choice, follows. Around him is the world in its truest form, ruthless and cruel to any man who dare treason with it, and he realizes that this is why the Galaxy Garrison was built here. As a reminder, and as a testament to the will of humankind. The air starts to lessen in its brutality, easing off his body in cooler breezes as night starts to fall. He doesn’t even recognize the sunset with how intensely-colored it is in this open space of future victories and losses. The sun dims in her brightness slowly, deliberately and then all at once—purple and red soar across the atmosphere in a display of emblazoned strikes.

He’s almost out of water when the sky turns a royal blue, blanketed by the shimmering of stars and constellations. He huffs and relents to the ache in his knees, dropping to the ground. He lies down, the sand his makeshift mattress, and closes his eyes. He listens to the cicadas chirping their rhythmic calls and imagines getting out of here in one piece.

He doesn’t rest for too long. His best chance of finding Shiro is to make the most of the next few hours, where the land takes pity on its visitors. He continues on, exhaustion seeping into the crevices of his bones with each step he takes. He comes to a fork, in which he can see the dimming lights of a city only a few miles away, or the seemingly infinite planes of undiscovered territory ahead. There’s no question. He walks into what may be the cause of his end, because to him, there’s no life worth living if it’s not with the person who taught him what it meant to be alive.

But a man can only take so much.

When dawn comes, he’s halfway into delirium. His skin has been pierced with a million sun-spears, tongue rubbed raw and rendered useless, flailing like sandpaper in his mouth. Every breath is haggard and agonizing, every movement is a marathon, and the overwhelming desire to give up and sleep nearly overtakes him.

There’s a small voice in his head—a last resort of pounding in his heart—that demands him to stand on his two feet and march forward, like the soldier he was, like the soldier he will always be. Besides the obvious goal of going back home with the man he loves most, this is a journey of remembrance and honor. To all the innocent lives lost, to all the blood on his hands, to all the times everything was as measly as nothing—this is what it means to be a Paladin.

He wants to listen. He wants to so bad, but he _can’t._ He guzzles the last of his water and savors every drop. Gathering the remaining bits of his sanity and strength, he swallows past the dryness of his throat and utters out a final call of desperation—

“ _Takashi_.”

—and falls.

 

* * *

 

Dangling on the precipice between life and death, he dug his blade into the last remaining fixture in sight and held onto Shiro’s limp hand with all his might. As debris and broken asteroids fell around their weakened spirits, unlimited and unbound by the limitless entity that was the universe, Keith saw the only thing that was important to him: his first friend. He didn’t want to meet his end this way. He glanced at his struggling arm, his scratched weapon. It wasn’t going to hold. With a subconscious, heartfelt goodbye to his lion, the Paladins, his mom, he exhaled, and let go.

_You can't do this to me._

He comes to slowly, blinking the bleariness in his vision away. All around him is frosted silver, the smell of antibacterial soap, and the pump of mild anesthetics. Somewhere in the distance, he hears his heartrate being monitored back to him. A quick glimpse down and he sees an I.V. in his arm, connecting to a drip. To his side, solid and asleep, is Shiro. He’s bent in half on a small chair, arms folded underneath his head on the edge of the hospital bed. His wings are folded tight against his back, mouth open to accommodate his light snoring. It should be uncomfortable, but he looks at peace, and Keith almost doesn’t want to wake him. His movements are draggy and sluggish, but he reaches out to card his fingers through Shiro’s hair anyway.

Shiro wakes with a small start. He sits upright upon meeting Keith’s gaze, and only a moment passes before his face crumples. He sobs, loud and heart-wrenching in the stillness of the room, and interlaces their fingers, squeezing tight. His wings droop behind him, an indicator matching his mood, and Keith would find it adorable in any other circumstance. He brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses every one of Shiro’s knuckles, the bone and flesh flexing under the attention. Keith has never seen him so whole. His own cheek burns at the thought.

“You found me,” Shiro chokes out, lips trembling. “How— _why_ —”

“Hush,” Keith says, testing the parameters of his voice. It’s rough and his vocal chords are near-fried, but it’ll work. “Let me look at you.”

Shiro’s eyebrows pinch together and he lets out a sound that is somewhere of a mix between a huff and a laugh, but clicks his mouth shut promptly afterwards. His lashes fan across the tops of his high cheekbones with every blink. There’s a scar missing across the width of his nose, and he has both arms in this lifetime, in this world. He’s in a different body this time around, but he’s still the same selfless, kindred soul Keith fell head-over-heels for.

“You’re gorgeous,” Keith murmurs with a smile. “I’m so lucky.”

Shiro’s jaw falls slack, but there’s an endearing blush spreading across his face. “Are you seriously flirting with me after you nearly just died?”

Keith rolls his eyes fondly. So overdramatic. “It’ll take more than a little dehydration to kill me,” he counters with a low laugh. He drinks in the sight of his best friend, his beloved, his everything—and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember sooner.”

Shiro’s eyes well with tears, and Keith feels his stomach flip. He sits up, bed creaking and joints protesting, and untangles their fingers to hold Shiro’s face in his hands. This close, he can count the pores on Shiro’s cheeks. He presses his lips to the tops of Shiro’s lids, the tip of his nose, the grooves of his temples, and the corners of his mouth. He bonks their foreheads together, gentle, noses brushing. Shiro encases both of Keith’s hands with his own, palms warm and soft. Again, Shiro is looking at Keith with that look in his eyes—the one where it’s like Keith is the only thing that matters in this unforgiving, merciless world, and it makes Keith’s entire being sing with love.

“I’m sorry I ran,” Shiro croaks, shaky. “I didn’t think you wanted to remember—I didn’t want to be selfish. I was okay with just knowing you were here, I swear, but then—I just, I don’t—”

“Takashi,” Keith interjects, fierce, “I will _always_ find you.”

A single tear escapes Shiro’s waterline, and Keith wipes it away with his thumb.

“No matter where we are, no matter what world, what era, even—I will make my way to you,” he promises, unwavering. “Nothing can keep us apart—you understand? You’re the only one I want. I’ll chase you across the universe as many times as I have to.”

And he means it. A bottomless void, a four-dimensional plane of harrowed existence, across lands and skies and galaxies and beyond—nowhere is too grueling, too overwhelming, too punishing in keeping them apart. It was always _them._ From their first meeting to their last breaths, from a chance taken on instability to the growth of a bond incapable of breaking, from friends to lovers. Somewhere along the way of broken hearts and all-consuming fear, they found safety and solace within each other. _I will never give up on you_ became _I love you._ It was always the two of them, or nothing at all—and it will always stay that way.

Shiro’s wings abruptly snap open and spread wide, knocking various items off Keith’s bedside table with a harsh clack. His feathers flutter and ripple, slicing through the air in their frantic jerks, and then they come down in a fell swoop to curl protectively over Keith’s body and to pull him nearer. This means he’s happy, Keith realizes with a startled laugh. Shiro ducks his head, embarrassed.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, the tips of his ears red. Cute. “It happens sometimes.”

“It’s okay,” Keith says, amused. “I like it.”

They sit like this for a while, basking in each other’s presence proper, surrounded by the fluffy embrace of Shiro’s wings. Keith tugs Shiro forward, and Shiro falls so easily into his arms, like he belongs. He strokes down the length of Shiro's back, moves his guardian angel's ear to lie directly over his beating heart, makes him listen to its never-ending confession.

Shiro wraps his arms around Keith’s waist, cuddling closer, inhaling deep. Keith kisses the crown of his head, but then Shiro looks up, waiting, _wanting_ , and Keith dips down to slot their mouths together. Shiro all but melts, a small noise escaping the back of his throat as he presses forward until their chests are nearly flush. Keith keeps it chaste with much difficulty, because Lord knows how much self-control he’s exercising, and leans back just a touch.

“Come back to mine?” Keith jokes, pecking Shiro’s lips once more. Because he can.

Shiro snorts loudly, then, and finally cracks a smile. It splits his entire face and is so brilliant and radiant and _beautiful_ that he puts star-spangled nebulas to shame. Keith is going to _ruin_ him later. He nods once, wings flapping animatedly.

“Always.”

 

* * *

 

The drive back is significantly tougher. Keith comes back to his car only to see all his Adderall has melted into a pile of blue goo, much to his dread and chagrin. Shiro also has a hard time fitting inside, seeing as his wings take up an obscene amount of space (even though Keith specifically rented a minivan for this exact reason). He has to lie down in the backseat on his belly, wings huddled close to his body.

With the lack of focus-enhancers and Shiro needing to step out every few hours to stretch, the journey back looks like it’ll take double the time it took to get out here in the first place. Which is fine, really, but that only gives Keith an extremely limited amount of time to spend with Shiro in the comfort of his own home before he has to go back to his crappy job, and subsequently share him with everyone else who’s eagerly waiting their return. Keith discovers that Shiro also doesn’t have that much free-time, because his job is to ferry readied spirits up to Heaven. Can’t escape death no matter what lifetime, it seems. It’s bittersweet and maybe a bit morbid, he thinks, that so many of their shared memories still line up in a similar manner.

They rest in subpar motel rooms for the first three nights. Shiro can sleep on his side if he wants to, Keith learns, but has to switch to sleeping on his tummy if he wants to avoid a serious case of pins and needles. Which means they can’t spoon, unfortunately, but Keith clings to Shiro like an octopus to make up for it. Sometimes, Keith will wake up with one of Shiro’s wings wrapped around him like a blanket, and it’s the best bouts of sleep he’s had in years.

There’s a small problem, though. Being in such close proximity to one’s handsome, muscled, sex-on-legs boyfriend can only result in one issue: the obvious half-chub that Keith has to shamefully take care of in the shower each sunrise. For fuck’s sake, he just wants to actually take Shiro out on a proper date—God knows they’re long overdue for one—and make love to him in a bed that doesn’t smell vaguely of bug spray. Shiro, meanwhile, is completely oblivious to Keith’s internal struggle, and licks his lips far too often, not even realizing what it’s doing to the threadbare remains of Keith’s self-control. Are they perpetually dry? Is that the case? Because Keith is going to fucking buy out the entire Burt’s Bees headquarters if it gets Shiro to stop being such a tease.

By the fourth afternoon, Keith has just about reached his limit. He’s cranky because he can’t smoke in front of Shiro— _I’m a death-god,_ Shiro explained with a frown. _You can’t honestly think I’m going to enable your nicotine addiction. Yes, addiction, because that’s what it is, babe._ He’s tired because he’s been driving for over thirty-six hours— _Shiro, I love you, but for the last time: no, you cannot drive this car,_ Keith said, on the verge of snapping. _One, because you do not have a license, and two, more importantly, your wings do not fucking fit in the driver’s seat._ And he’s so, so horny. That goes without saying, though.

Shiro takes note of this because the air in the car becomes tense and charged, and suggests they pull over. They’re only a ten-hour stretch from home and Keith wants to get a chunk of that out of the way before the sun goes down, but too tired to argue, he relents and keeps an eye out for a decent rest stop. They don’t see much for a few miles, but then Shiro spots the blue of the ocean, and asks Keith if they could take the next exit. Keith pulls into a parking lot by the boardwalk. It’s late enough that he can afford to sneak out of here without paying for parking, so he quickly shuffles out of the car to regain some feeling in his legs and lets Shiro do the same.

Shiro takes his hand when he’s done stretching and drags him to the beach with a look of unfiltered delight. And just like that, seeing how happy he is, all of Keith’s frustration melts away and leaves him unburdened. They can’t stay too long unless he wants a ticket and even though he’s decidedly seen enough sand in this lifetime, it’s all worth it if it makes Shiro smile.

The water is cold this time of year, but Shiro still rolls up his jeans and walks forward, unafraid, unrestricted. The sun dips below the horizon and showers him in an orange glow, highlighting how ethereal he truly is. His wings, unbound by the confines of space, splay freely outwards in the autumn air, and Keith does nothing but watch, utterly captivated.

They never got to see the sea, Keith remembers now. In their other lives, beaches that weren’t littered with mile-high lumps of trash, or with a sea that wasn’t filled with nuclear waste, was a distant memory of the older generations, never to be seen in its true glory by the cadets who would risk their lives for this planet. He’s taken it for granted all this time, he realizes suddenly. He’ll need to take Shiro to beaches more often.

Keith folds his trousers to his ankles and throws his shoes off to the side, jogging forward to catch up. Holy shit, the water is freezing between his toes, but Shiro laughs without a care in the world, and interlaces their fingers, warming Keith right back up. He thinks of Pidge and Hunk and Allura and Lance, imagines their faces when they finally see Shiro again. He imagines them reveling in the fact that they’re all safe, they’re all okay, they're all together once more, and it makes his heart swell.

Keith throws his arms around Shiro’s neck and tugs him down, swallowing his sweet, musical laughs in a kiss that’s all teeth and smiles. With the scenery behind them, a picture taken of them right now would look unnervingly like a Hallmark engagement card, but he doesn’t care, because Shiro wraps his arms around his waist and he thinks that maybe the universe isn’t so cruel after all.

“Let’s go home,” Shiro says, breathless and giddy.

 _Home_ , he said. Keith hides a grin by brushing his lips over Shiro’s heart.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

**Author's Note:**

> wheeeeeew! my two soft boys. my two, lovely, soft boys. aren't they just the best? i'm on tumblr if you wanna talk @ shirotales. new blog, so excuse lack of content. lmk what yall thought!


End file.
